Porcelain, like your comforting friend.
Fix a hole, where the rain gets in.
When your father died, new wounds open up.
And you don't feel good enough or smart enough or anything anymore.
Now life ends up on the floor.
Pretty skin, once looked warm now cold,
like the tub you're in.
Old soul, not so old,
then your body died.
Friends cover their ass.
I know it's not their job to look after you,
but preserve the future,
because you can't preserve the past.
Blue lips, leopard spots build time lines.
That's what happens when we mainline.
If there was a next time,
I don't think I'd have shit to say.
Now life equals myth.
Death equals forever.